A golfer sent me this. I don’t golf and realize many courses have been closed since the onset of COVID-19. Even if you read no further than the title of this anonymously penned piece, you’ll have read a very sensible piece of advice - NP
March Madness is cancelled, the NBA is shut down, the Masters is postponed, and my Aunt Marge’s senior bowling league has even thrown in the towel. Now restaurants and bars are closed, and our 40-handicap Governor is threatening to shut down all entertainment facilities including golf courses. I haven’t tested positive, but the coronavirus is killing me.
There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do. My wife suggested we take a walk, but I don’t walk anywhere unless I have a golf club in my hand and it’s cart path only. My kids have a restraining order on us and won’t let us come within 200 yards of the grandchildren. We can no longer eat out, but when we tried to cook at home, there were cobwebs in the oven.
The network channels are inundated with coverage of the virus. The golf channel has been showing reruns of old tournaments, which are almost as riveting as watching my brother-in-law’s video of his family camping trip to Yellowstone. And my wife is so desperate for something to do, she’s even considering sex, and maybe even with me.
Paranoia is off the tracks. Before the shutdown, we were having dinner at a local bar. I let out a loud sneeze and everyone at the surrounding tables started yelling "check please." My stock portfolio is plummeting and most of our cash is currently invested in toilet paper.
I’m washing my hands 137 times a day. I don’t touch anyone. I don’t even touch myself. I’ve been using tongs to go to the bathroom. This has to stop. Our society and economy have been crippled by a microscopic virus. Scientists haven’t yet determined the exact origin but have narrowed it down to a Chinese fish market or Rosie O’Donnell’s bathtub.
No one is sure how to prevent or cure this virus. In the past, the ways to prevent contracting a contagious disease were simple: Don’t eat in restaurants with cat on the menu and don’t date my college roommate’s sister.
I don’t consider myself in the high-risk category. I’ve been building up my immune system by eating one meal per day at McDonald’s for the last 25 years. Germs just slide through me. My only pre-existing condition is an inability to launch a golf ball further than 180 yards.
According to the CDC, symptoms of the coronavirus are sweats, dizziness, and trouble breathing, which I experience whenever I stand over a three-foot putt.
And so I proposed to my regular foursome the idea of escaping from our self-imposed Stalag 17 and venturing outside for a round of golf. Everyone recognized the danger and severity of the situation. But when faced with the decision to remain sequestered with our wives or to risk contracting a deadly virus, it was a no-brainer. Every man opted to play golf.
Our foursome poses no medical risk to mankind. My friend George is virus free. Social distancing hasn’t been a problem for him. Other than us, he has no friends.
My neighbor Bob is a urologist who’s been working from home for several weeks. He’s doing remote prostate exams by having patients sit on their cell phone. Jerry, our other partner, tested himself with a kit he bought online. Jerry thinks he may have got the wrong kit. His result showed no trace of the virus but indicated he was pregnant with twins.
The federal government has established guidelines for social engagement. For example, you must stay at least six feet apart, with no more than 10 people allowed at a gathering, which means Patrick Reed’s fan club can still meet. Our foursome has also drafted our own set of rules for Pandemic Golf:
• Hazmat suits are permitted. As an alternative, one can wear a college mascot costume or big bunny pajamas.
• Masks are not permitted. We’d look more like stagecoach robbers than a foursome.
• Leave the flag in. And to avoid retrieving balls from the hole, any putt shorter than Lebron James is good.
• Ride in separate golf carts and don’t come closer to another player than a fully extended ball retriever.
• Don’t touch another player’s balls. This is always good advice.
• No high fives. Fortunately, we seldom have a reason.
• No petting the geese or the cart girl.
• Don’t use the spot-a-pot. More disease in there than in all of Wuhan, China.
• No excuses. Slicing or hooking are not side effects of the coronavirus.
• Make an online bank transfer to pay off your bets for the day.
• Straddle the sprinkler on the 18th hole before getting into the car.
These rules and restrictions have adequately protected us from contamination. Unfortunately, there’s no vaccine for bad golf. I had trouble gripping the club with oven mittens, but it was an enjoyable afternoon which ended way too soon. There were no handshakes on the 18th green, no beers at the bar, and we drove home separately.
As the pandemic plays through, it’s giving us a glimpse into our inevitable future where all meals are delivered, all entertainment comes through the TV screen, and all human interaction takes place through our cell phone.
Schooling will be at home and online; exercise will happen on a stationary bike in the basement; medical testing will be done at drive thru windows; and colonoscopies will be performed at Jiffy Lube. The world is changing - less interpersonal as technology consumes us.
With more time on our carefully washed hands, everyone should take a moment to cherish the fading era when friends got together to hit a little ball around an open field for no good reason other than to enjoy companionship.
